by Tamara Gill
Wolfe eyed her half-empty trencher. “For a wench who normally eats her fill, you ate little enough tonight. Though your satisfied smile says otherwise, I am now left wondering if you found the taste of my meal disagreeable?”
“Hardly. It was delicious.” Dabbing her lips with a white cloth, she said, “I still can’t believe you whipped that up from what little’s in my pantry.”
He shrugged. All afternoon, during the assembling of the feast, he had desired the wench’s smiling praise, but now that he had it, it felt somehow incomplete. What he truly desired was far more complex.
A declaration of love. To be given—now.
Upstairs, in her cozy bed.
The very thought of her not wanting him angered him as surely as if he had just kneed his mount to charge into a losing battle. For this had become a battle—the toughest he had personally ever waged. For the first time in his thousand-plus years, Wolfe found himself uncertain of his course.
All women loved him.
That was the way it had always been.
They had loved sheltering him and cooing over him when he had been but a wee boy. After his mother’s death, the women about the house had ensured he never lacked for a gentle touch. Upon growing older, old enough to want more from a woman than soft hugs, they had grown to love his strength and size and legendary bedroom prowess.
Yet with this woman, who held his very life in her delicate hands, who seemed to thirst for him much in the same manner as had all others, the trouble was in her refusal to act upon that thirst.
It made no sense. Why thirst, yet not drink? Twas against the very laws of nature.
“You’re awfully quiet,” she reached for his plate even as she pushed back her chair, “what’s on your mind?”
“You.”
Carrying both of their plates to the kitchen sink, she said, “That sounds dull.”
“To the contrary,” he followed with the empty bowl of pas-ta. He set it to the counter, then swept fiery curls from her neck, kissing the tender spot he had only just bared. “I find you to be a most intriguing mystery.”
“Oh?” Although he had pinned her to the counter, she ducked beneath his arm, skittering to the other side of the room.
“I especially find that interesting.”
“What?” She wrapped a stick of butter before placing it into the fridge.
“Your habit of denying yourself the pleasure of being in my arms.”
“Habit?” She coughed.
“See?” he noted, slipping his hands about her waist, “Your body knows you need me. Why does your heart not feel the same?”
Chin raised, palms against his steely chest, no doubt itching to explore, she said, “Last time I checked, Your Highness, my body and heart were connected. And both of us have to go.”
“Go?”
“Yes, you know what that means, don’t you?” Pushing herself free, she said, “Thanks for dinner. Since you cooked, leave the cleanup for me. I’ll tackle it when I get home. Oh, and I made you some reading flash cards during lunch—you know, with the alphabet and some sounds. I meant to bring them home, but Grumsworth showed up and, well, you can probably guess the rest. Anyway, I forgot them, and I’m sorry. But we’ll get to them tomorrow.”
He nodded his acceptance of her apology, pleased that she had not forgotten his need. “Where are you going?” he asked. “Because if it is to purchase me more clothes, or—”
“Nothing like that,” she assured. “I hurt someone and tonight I need to make things up to him.”
“Him?” Eyebrows raised, he asked, “You would not be off to visit that insipid duke, would you?”
“Okay, yes.” Turning away from him, she snatched her quilted purse from a peg on the mudroom wall. “Not that it’s any of your concern.”
“Not my concern?” He curved his fingers round her shoulders, digging them into her soft flesh. “Nothing has ever been more my concern. Do you not understand, Lucy Gordon? You hold my life in your hands. If you do not soon declare your love, I will cease to exist. What could possibly be more important, or more worthy of my concern than the matter of my own self-preservation?”
“N-nothing,” she said with a light shake of her head. “Everything. I don’t know. You’re confusing me.”
“Confusing you?” He laughed. “What do you think your increasingly passionate nature does to me? The darkening of your eyes, hitches in your breath, the hardening of buds that have nothing to do with roses and everything to do with your very breasts reaching out for my touch.”
“You think too highly of yourself, Your Highness.”
“Shall I take that as your challenge to prove me wrong?”
“Take it however you want, just know it’s William I love.”
“For now,” he said, voice a low growl. “Just keep in mind, Lucy Gordon, that when he kisses you, you shall never cleave to him as you do me.”
“Let me go.” Cold fire flashing in her eyes of pale blue, she squirmed against him. “I’m starting to despise you. You’ve brought nothing but havoc to my life.”
“Because you know I am right.” Her accusations increased not only the intensity of his hold, but his will to win. “Stop fighting. Grant yourself entry to the shelter to be found in my arms. As king, I can protect you, I can—”
“Wake up,” she said. “You’re no longer in line for any throne. If what you told me is true, you’re not a king or even a prince, but a frog. End of story.”
Her words cut.
As such, he granted her request for release so swiftly that she momentarily lost balance. Instinctively, he reached out to steady her, but held back, not wishing to endure a second verbal attack. He had broken a cardinal rule of battle—never underestimate your opponent. He might physically be the stronger but, mentally, her mind was proving sharp—clear enough to do far more damage than could ever be inflicted with a mere dagger. Her truth hurt worse than any blade.
But he possessed truths, as well, along with the skill to deliver an equally painful blow. “While what you speak may be true, Lucy Gordon, know that tonight, if you should find yourself cold or wanting, it is due to neither climate nor company but the absence of me.”
***
Lucy calmly stepped outside of her cottage, strolled down the crushed stone path winding toward the castle garden. Then, once she knew herself free of the prince’s line of sight, she ran. Ran so hard that her lungs ached, but still she ran, on and on until her hair and clothes hung limp with sweat and tears smudged her already weary makeup.
“Why?” she sobbed, crumbling onto a wood bench. Why did the man affect her so? All she had to do was survive his presence for one month—not even a full month now—and if what he’d said was true, her every dream would magically come true.
All her life, she’d been a scientist first, woman second. Why couldn’t she remember that now?
If she somehow managed to keep her wits about her, in less than a month’s time, her father would love and adore her. Professionally, she’d be lauded and cheered. The duke would finally propose. Best of all, Grumsworth would be off of her case, because there was no way he’d hassle a real live duchess!
The only thing she had to do to achieve all of that and more was to keep her distance, and keep her cool. She’d be polite to the prince. She’d even help him learn to read and rave over his cooking, but one thing she could not—would not—do was let him under her skin.
She had to, once and for all, get it through her head that nothing the prince said was real. He was a self-professed brilliant warrior and, she assumed, strategist. Meaning he full well knew how to yank her emotional chains!
The man was most likely a genius. Easily proven by the nifty range of skills he’d picked up just by watching a little TV.
Where did that leave her? Smack dab in the middle of a battle over something she wasn’t prepared to give. Something she didn’t even have to give. The prince wanted her to love him but that was going to be kind of hard, seeing ho
w she already loved William!
Try telling that to her racing heart.
The whole stupid time she’d stood in the mudroom hurling oh-so-brave insults at Wolfe, her lips had actually tingled for his next kiss. Had he placed her under some sort of ancient spell?
She wouldn’t put it past him and Lord knew the physical signs were there, seeing how all day long, she couldn’t wait to get home.
She didn’t even like him, so why had she wondered what he was watching on TV? And what he’d think of her latest installment with Grumsworth? And if he’d like chocolate? Or amusement parks? Or one of those pricey moon cruises? Or even if he’d noticed the new way she’d styled her hair?
Stupid!
Storming to her feet, arms crossed, lips pressed tight, she paced.
It wouldn’t matter if she’d sheared her head and painted it purple!
She loved William.
She would one day marry William!
And then—
“Luce?”
She jumped. “William. I didn’t hear you.”
“Little wonder, with all of this fuming. May I?” he asked, awkwardly holding out his arms as if he’d like to give her a hug. Did he even have to ask?
“Oh, William,” she cried, stepping into his embrace, sobbing messy tears all over his soft cotton sweatshirt. Sweatshirt? The duke never wore sweatshirts. Still, that oddity could be pondered later. Right now, she had much bigger fish to fry. For while she rued the very day the prince hopped into her life, he’d also brought with him the possibility of her every dream coming true.
Dreams that came at a price, her nosy conscience reminded. Wolfe’s life.
Oh sure, he’d still be technically alive, but could living the life of a frog be anywhere near as satisfying as life as a man? Would his actual transformation be painful? Did he at least have frog friends out there to keep him company beside the pond?
“Hey,” William tenderly pulled back to squeeze her hand, “what’s Grumsworth done this time?”
She shook her head before rummaging through her purse for a tissue.
William took one from his pocket and handed it to her.
“How are you always so prepared?” she asked after a good, hard blow. “How do you always do and say the right thing, and never seem to have a moment’s angst?”
“Never any angst, huh?” He laughed. “If only you could have seen me fifteen minutes ago, dashing about the place in preparation for you.”
“What do you mean?” Lit by a pale sliver of rising moon, worry knitted his eyebrows and he’d pressed his lips into a concerned frown.
“This is what I love about you,” he said, leading her back to the wooden bench she’d originally started out on before giving her hand another tender squeeze. “You have no idea of the mayhem you wreak upon my heart.”
Lucy drew her free hand to her mouth. Was this it? Was he about to propose?
He looked to the stone walk, kicking a pebble with the right toe of gleaming new Nikes. Nikes? He really had gone all out to impress! Before looking back to her, he sighed. “Ruth Haweberry called last night.”
Argh! How could she be so lame? William wasn’t proposing. He was breaking up.
“While you know I don’t usually set store by her outrageous tales, her latest caught me rather unprepared.”
“Oh?”
“She said she spotted you in the village purchasing a rather vast assortment of men’s clothes. Large men’s clothes—not large in a stout way but tall, and—bloody hell.” Releasing her hand, he stood only to shove his hands into his pockets. “I fear I’ve quite taken you for granted, Luce, and if I have, I must confess to being terribly sorry in not having made my intentions toward you clearer. While my practical side is not quite ready for a more formal announcement, I should very much like for the two of us to at the very least... How do you Yanks say this? Date seriously?”
Tears filled Lucy’s eyes.
While this wasn’t the marriage proposal she’d hoped for, nevertheless, seriously dating the handsome duke was a wonderful thing.
“Am I to assume tears indicate a negative response?”
She shook her head.
“That’s a bloody relief. I’ve had my secretary counsel me in all ways American, thinking I’d be launching a fight for you. But—”
“Is that why you’re wearing a Crimson Tide sweatshirt along with sneakers and jeans?” Jeans! William never wore jeans, claiming the casual garments to be the downfall of civilized society.
“You noticed,” he said, hands outstretched, heading back her way. “My secretary said I must loosen up. And, in that spirit, we’re grilling hamburgers for dinner. She suggested hot dogs, but—”
“Hamburgers sound great,” she squeezed her wonderful man. Her man! Eek! They were officially dating. She hadn’t felt so romantically giddy since Zane Lundstrom asked her to go with him back in eighth grade.
“So?” the duke said, his arm looped about her waist as they walked to the castle. “Care to tell me who was the lucky recipient of all of those clothes?”
“Relax,” Lucy crossed her fingers to counteract her latest fib, “they were for a friend of a friend back home who complains he can never find high-quality sweaters.”
“But Ruth indicated to you also having purchased undergarments and shoes.”
“What can I say?” Lucy shrugged. “He loves all things British.”
“Can’t say as I blame the chap,” William grinned. “Sounds as if he has bloody good taste—like me.”
“Like you, huh?” She poked his ribs. “Might I be so bold, Your Grace, as to include myself in that assessment?”
“You may,” he paused beneath an ivy-covered trellis, “under one condition.”
“What’s that?” she asked, heart aflutter.
“You give me a kiss.”
“Mmm, you didn’t even have to ask.” Surrendering herself to his tender hold, Lucy knew the meaning of bliss. There was no smoldering passion in her dear William, but a good, warm and wonderful kiss that when he’d released her to continue their walk left her—wanting.
Just know, Lucy Gordon, that tonight, if you should find yourself cold or wanting, it is due to neither climate nor company but the absence of me.
No, Lucy resolutely vowed. That wanting had been nothing more than her anticipation for the night to come. Time spent grilling burgers and talking and—finally getting back to the cottage to be taken into Wolfe’s arms.
“Grrr...”
“What was that?” the duke asked at the castle’s north terrace.
“Nothing,” meaning the word from the very bottom of her heart, she added, “absolutely nothing.”
Cloaked in a veil of shadows, Wolfe smiled.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Have a nice visit?”
For the second time that night, Lucy jumped. “Wolfe. Geez. Why are you sitting in the dark?”
“It’s hardly dark. Can you not see the firelight?”
“I suppose.” But with him lounging on the sofa in just those damned pajama bottoms, the whisker-stubbled angles of his face accentuated by the fire’s glow, she could almost believe they’d been transported back to his time. Back to when if he’d tried, he might have made positive changes in his life, then this whole frog thing wouldn’t even be an issue. “But it’s not civilized.”
“Were you not the one who earlier pronounced me nothing better than a lowly frog? As such, I should think it appropriate for me to behave wholly uncivilized.”
Ignoring him, Lucy crossed the living room to turn on a lamp. Sadly, the incandescent pool didn’t steal near as much of his magnetism as she’d have liked.
Yes, Wolfe, with his battle scars, long dark hair and fierce expressions was the very embodiment of uncivilized. But now that William had declared his intentions, she somehow felt better fortified against the prince’s wily charms.
Again, she reminded herself that none of what he portrayed was real, but a carefully calculated act des
igned not to make her happy, as William’s sweatshirt-and-burger night had, but to make her declare her love. And not because he loved her, but because he wanted to save his own behind!
“I have grown weary of your circular logic.” Raking his fingers through his hair, the prince sighed. On his feet, heading toward the stairs, he said, “I bid you good night.”
“Just like that? You’re leaving me, and going to bed?”
“Just like that.”
***
“Dad, hi! It’s me, Lucy.” Thursday afternoon on her lunch hour, she’d finally tracked him down in Mongolia. Her cell combined with his satellite phone made for a connection crackling with static.
“You in trouble, hon? Strapped for cash?”
“Nope. Just, um, needing a small favor.” She wrapped the drawstring from her dress’s collar round her pinkie, squeezing until the tip of her finger turned red.
“A favor, huh? And it doesn’t involve cash?” He laughed.
Swallowing an irritated sigh, Lucy said, “I’ve made an exciting discovery. A new frog. I can’t wait for you to see him, Dad. He’s a real beauty.” Especially in his current form.
“Luce, please don’t tell me you’re back to that? I thought we’d been over this. You haven't quit your job, have you? I pulled quite a few strings to—”
“No. That’s the best part. I found my new species on the castle lane.” Eyes squeezed shut, picturing the unique-to-all-the-world amphibian she’d soon have, she described Wolfe in his frog form. His blazing purple and black diamond ventral. The deep-set, dark-lashed eyes.
The great Slate Gordon laughed again. “Eyelashes? Isn’t that a tad over the edge of responsible science, even for you?”
“Dad, please, I’m serious. Believe me, I know how nuts this must sound, which is why I’m calling. I need you to get me on the speaker’s list at the World Biological Conference.”
“No.”
“Please, Dad.”
“Absolutely out of the question. Don’t you think you caused enough trouble the last time you appeared?”
“Yes, but this time, I really do have a unique species.”
While her pulse pounded in her ears, for endless seconds, the only sound on the line was static, then finally, a deep sigh. “Can you e-mail me a picture?”
